Though the Doll Should Die
by Ze Quixotical
Summary: He lay on the floor for what seemed like a century, getting more and more impatient as more and more straw leaked out of his head. Had he been robbed of death again?... Drocell felt himself being turned over and it was everything he could do to resist now, because he'd been so close to dead, lying there and not moving, and this was a hateful regression back into the living world.


**Title:** Though the Doll Should Die

**Author:** Ze Quixotical

**Spoilers:** Minor spoilers for Shard of Hope arc (anime only).

**Warnings:** Extremely mild yaoi.

**Summary:** He lay on the floor for what seemed like a century, getting more and more impatient as more and more straw leaked out of his head. Had he been robbed of death again? It seemed so – he'd been lied to, lied to again and he wasn't dead and he was angry but he couldn't move, not even to provoke that unearthly butler into killing him…Drocell felt himself being turned over and it was everything he could do to resist now, because he'd been so close to dead, lying there and not moving, and this was a hateful regression back into the living world.

**Pairings:** Implied Undertaker x Drocell Keinz

**Additional Notes:** Cover art: "Drocell Kuroshitsuji" by LadyLawlietta (DeviantArt)

**Disclaimer:** This is Ze, it is not raining outside, and I do not own Kuroshitsuji.

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_Any grammatical errors, particularly regarding comma usage and sentence structure, are strictly intentional and used for literary effect._

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"So I thought to myself: 'I will report to my master.'" Drocell intoned after picking himself off of the floor. The puppeteer ignored the surprise of the interlopers. He just had to get to his master. The sooner he got there, the sooner he could die, die for the second time.

He welcomed it.

Dolls were beautiful, and he was beautiful, he was frozen in time but there was sawdust and straw spilling out of his head, leaving a gritty feel in his hair, and as much or as little as he could feel, he did not like it. He should be dead; he should have died five years ago, he knew he should have.

But he _hadn't._

Instead, he had awoken in a body of what the butler had belittled. He was _not_ made out of very high-quality materials. Whoever was his master now, (true or not, he did not know) had made him useless.

He took a few shaky steps away from his music box and put his gloved palms on the doors. He pushed them open, feeling wobbly.

"Ma-ster." He didn't stop himself as he fell forward. He knew he'd hit the ground, he didn't have the will or the strength to catch himself and what did it matter because he'd served his purpose and now it was time to die, like he'd been promised.

He lay on the floor for what seemed like a century, getting more and more impatient as more and more straw leaked out of his head. Had he been robbed of death again? It seemed so – he'd been lied to, lied to again and he wasn't dead and he was angry but he couldn't move, not even to provoke that unearthly butler into killing him.

Gradually, he became aware that Ciel Phantomhive and the butler and the red reaper and the demon hound had gone, leaving him paralyzed and suffering on the floor. He was most angry at the reaper. It was not the same one who'd lied to him previously but why wasn't the red reaper killing him?

_London Bridge is falling down, _

_Falling down, falling down._

_London Bridge is falling down,_

_My Fair La~dy~_

His music box was playing but that was impossible because he was alone in the dark room and his music box required someone to crank the lever on the side. But he was certain he heard it and he also heard singing behind him. He couldn't see though. Once he'd been able to turn his head around all the way, but now it was just as stuck as the rest of him.

"Hi~!"

Drocell felt himself being turned over and it was everything he could do to resist now, because he'd been so close to dead, lying there and not moving, and this was a hateful regression back into the living world. Nevertheless, he was turned over because he was powerless

_(Yes. You see, you don't seem to be made of very high-quality materials.)_

and he found himself looked up into the pale face of the reaper who'd lied.

"Hi~!" the reaper said again, and wiggled his long fingers in Drocell's face, waving.

Drocell didn't try to answer because he couldn't move and it wasn't like he wanted to talk to the reaper anyway. He just wanted to settle back into the arms of Death and not have to worry anymore.

"You can talk~," he said, grinning goofily at Drocell. "You are only a _small_ ways from death, after all."

And the reaper should know – he was a reaper after all.

"So I thought to myself: 'Is the Undertaker here to ridicule or lie to me?'" Drocell said, staring up into the reaper's face.

The Undertaker's grin widened, but his eyes, which Drocell knew to be yellow, were not visible beneath his long bangs.

"No no~," the Undertaker said. "I just came to bid you fare~well~."

Drocell gazed at him, expressionless. The Undertaker giggled and held up Drocell's music box.

_Wood and clay will wash away,__  
_

_Wash away, wash away,__  
_

_Wood and clay will wash away,__  
_

The Undertaker stopped cranking the music box. He leaned forward and stroked a black nailed finger up Drocell's cheek, tracing the blue fleur-de-lis under his eye.

"_My Dear~ Puppeteer~" _he finished.

Drocell looked at him for a moment longer before responding, "And so I thought to myself, should my strings be severed, let there still be London Bridges."

The Undertaker's lips settled into a smile. He leaned down until his face was right in front of Drocell's, so that his nose was nearly touching his cheek.  
"Certainly~. And you need not worry about being reanimated again – you will indeed be dead before tonight is out."

Drocell found himself able to blink his glassy purple eyes once in acknowledgement before singing:

"_London Bridge is falling down, falling down…we all fall down."_

He frowned slightly at the words he had sung. The Undertaker had straightened back up, but was trailing the tip of his fingernail along Drocell's flared ginger bangs.

_London Bridge_

_Is broken down,_

_Dance over my puppeteer_

_London Bridge _

_Is broken down_

_My puppeteer is gone~_

The Undertaker waited a moment longer before setting the music box to the side.

He flattened his hand so that his long nails were aligned on a single plane, then, in a single stroke, chopped into the dead puppeteer's torso.

"_Pardon me, my puppet-y friend~,"_ he sang. He clenched his fist, splinters biting under his nails, wood split as he ripped his prize from the puppeteer's chest.

"_Per~fect,"_ he crooned, gazing fondly at the precious, fluttery thing cupped in his hands. What he had…was the unfortunate puppeteer's soul. It had been uprooted and thrust into a false prison one too many times, but this would be different. The Undertaker knew what he was doing with the precious soul. He saved it from its inhospitable confinement, and intended to do good for his dear puppeteer.

Turning away from the ruined puppet, he pressed his cupped hands to the music box. For a moment, it seemed nothing would happen. Then, slowly, the lever on the side began to turn, and an eerie tune emanated from the music box.

_Though my puppeteer should die_

_Puppeteer should die, puppeteer should die_

_Though my puppeteer should die,_

_We all fall down._

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**Ze's Note: Thank you for reading. This was my first serious Kuroshitsuji fanfiction, so reviews are very encouraging. I love you all. :)**


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